


Carpe Diem

by phoebesmum



Category: Sports Night
Genre: Angst, M/M, One Night Stand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-17
Updated: 2009-11-17
Packaged: 2017-10-03 05:11:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoebesmum/pseuds/phoebesmum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chance meeting in a bar; one night with a stranger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carpe Diem

**Author's Note:**

> Written May 2005. Sparked by the LiveJournal comm SN100 challenge 'unlikely pairings'. As close as I am ever likely to get to RPS - if you look closely enough.

Sometimes things just get to him. Anything can spark it: the show's a delicate balance, it doesn't take much to swing it from good to bad. A fluffed link, a couple of moments of dead air; tension in the control room that spills over into the studio. A particular news story might hit a little too close to home. Or, most frequently, as tonight, Casey can be more than usually oblivious and insensitive and, when that happens, Dan needs distance, time and space, before he can go back and face the people he knows and keep on playing the game he's played for more than ten years now. He never makes it obvious. He'll go for the usual after-work drink at Anthony's, but then he'll make some excuse, leave early, only instead of going home he'll head someplace else, someplace new; someplace he can be private.

And so tonight he's sitting in a bar he's never been to before, a pretentious, preppie kind of place with overpriced drinks and the walls lined with bookshelves (nobody's reading; he doubts they ever do) when a voice behind him says, "Excuse me," and he turns, resigned, expecting the usual star-struck sports fan. He's in for a surprise. The face that confronts his is far more famous than his own, and it's his turn to be more than a little overawed. He's lost for words, and has to check quickly to be sure his mouth's not hanging open. Because even in New York, it's not every day that you find yourself face to face with a movie star.

The voice which, of course, he should have recognised, says, hesitantly, "You're Dan Rydell, aren't you? From _Sports Night_?" And when Dan says yes, yes he is, the movie star slides almost casually onto the barstool next to his and says, "You know, I've been watching you on TV ever since the show started, and I've never got over this. You look exactly, _exactly_, like this friend of mine …" Then he seems to remember his manners and sticks out his hand. "I'm sorry. I'm - "

Dan smiles at him, surprised to find that this other man, this bona fide A-list Hollywood superstar, is the one who seems to need reassuring, and says, "Hey, dude, I know who you are!"

The actor shrugs - almost a squirm - as if embarrassed and says, "Thanks." Dan remembers Abby:_ "Did I just give you a compliment?"_ \- and, feeling oddly reassured, says, "Loved the last movie, man."

Blue eyes open very wide. The usual Hollywood stereotypes don't apply; he's smart, this one, he heard what Dan didn't say. "Not the one before?"

Dan's own embarrassed shrug is almost a mirror image. "Not so much," he admits. It had been a routine cop-gone-bad shoot-'em-up, and he'd been bored. He hadn't bothered watching to the end.

The actor looks reproachful. "It was _Oscar nominated_, you know!" But his eyes are sparkling, and he's trying not to smile. Dan grins back, suddenly easy and confident, and says, "Yeah, I know. What was with that?"

He doesn't mean it as a serious question, but the other man takes it as one and starts ticking points off on his fingers: they include 'broadening my profile', which sounds self-involved and precious, but also 'plus, you know, a man's gotta eat. And pay the alimony', which is far more honest, and endears him to Dan more than anything else he's said so far. Partway through the list their drinks run dry, and the actor orders another round without a blink. They move by silent common consensus to a booth; there's more conversation, more drinks. A lot more drinks, and Dan is forgetting to be awed or impressed. Other, more basic, more primal instincts are getting in the way of the superficial.

It's getting late now, and Dan thinks he should be going home. Whose home, though: that's the question. Because, for the last half-hour or so, he's noticed a new look in the other man's eyes, a considering, speculative look, and one that he understands only too well.

"This friend of yours," he says suddenly, "Were you in love with him?"

The actor is instantly wary. Open gayness is still, even in this day and age, box-office poison for a leading man, as much of a stigma, maybe more, as it is in sports. Only a small handful of veterans and character actors can get away with it. "I was married, man. Why would you think - ?"

"I know the signs," Dan says, gently; it's a confession and an invitation, both at once. For a moment he thinks he's made a mistake, or that Hollywood peer pressure and a publicist's warnings will win out over honesty, but something - possibly a need for understanding, perhaps only the amount of Scotch they've got through over the course of the evening - swings the balance. The actor's long, strangely elegant hands draw patterns, whorls and spirals, in the spilled beer on the table, and he doesn't meet Dan's eyes as he says, "Since we were kids. There was this movie we did together …"

Dan nods. He knows the one. He saw it. Once. Everyone's seen it, it's a classic. It would probably be in his own DVD collection if not for … well: some of the themes touched a nerve, that's all. And he knows now who the other actor must be; he can even, if he thinks about it, see that yes, there's a resemblance, although no-one else has ever commented on it.

"You still see him?" Dan asks, and now it's the actor's turn to nod.

"Yeah. When we can get together. He lives on the other coast - he's still in the business …"

"He is?" Dan asks idly. He watches a lot of movies, but he can't remember seeing that particular actor in anything for years. He guesses his career's not gone as well as his friend's.

"Yeah." The other man looks a little stricken. "He does okay. Really, he's fine. And yeah, I still see him. But he, he doesn't know …"

"I know how _that_ goes," Dan says, and for all that he tries, and all the practice that he's had, still it comes out bitter. And when he feels the warmth of a hand on his, he doesn't look up, knowing what will be in his eyes, knowing that what he'll see in the other man's face will mirror the look on his own.

The touch is brief; any casual observer would think nothing of it. But it's sent a spark through Dan's nerve endings, a direct line from hand to groin, and it takes all of his self-control to stay in his seat when every one of his impulses is urging him to stand, to reach across the table, to drag the other man towards him and lose himself in the taste and texture of that mouth, that mouth that's so familiar and, at the same time, so utterly, wonderfully new and strange. He smiles, his eyes still on the table, and says softly, "My apartment's just a few blocks away …" He looks up then, and sees an answering smile on the other man's face.

"Mine's closer," the actor says, "If you want to walk."

Dan nods, and they pay for their drinks and leave the bar, walking carefully, distance between them. Casual; indifferent.

***

The other man's apartment is surprisingly small and low-key, considering his celebrity status, and it's less than immaculate: books and scripts and papers are everywhere, CDs, tapes and DVDs, some in their sleeves, some not, lie on the shelves, on the couch, scattered across the floor; wilting houseplants, unopened packages, opened ones spilling their contents in every direction, a part-rolled tatami mat, an uneven stack of photographs pushed aside on a table and waiting to be autographed. It's clean, though, no dirty plates or used coffee mugs, no dust, although all the ashtrays are brimful to overflowing and the tiger-striped cat who opens one baleful eye to glare at them has left furry evidence of her existence on every piece of furniture. Really, it's not much worse than Dan's own place. Photos of the actor's ex-wife (even higher up the A-list than he himself is) and their two unsurprisingly photogenic and adorable children peek out here and there from the clutter. Dan ignores them; if he doesn't, they'll prey on his conscience. The bedroom is messier yet, clothes strewn across the floor, the bed unmade. It doesn't matter. Very soon after, the pile of clothes is added to, and the bedding is being treated with no consideration whatsoever.

***

Hours later, Dan wakes. The room is dark, but he can see the first faint glimmers of light starting to edge through the curtains. He dresses slowly, watching the other man sleep. He doesn't have to commit the face to memory; it's one he already knows, has known for years, although never before like this. He picks up his watch and buckles it, takes his shoes in his hand and walks quietly to the door. He's almost there when he hears movement behind him and a sleepy voice saying, "Didn't figure you for the type who'd fuck and run, Danny."

He turns back; sits on the edge of the bed and ruffles the sleep-spiked fair hair. "I thought you might hate yourself in the morning. I always like privacy when I do that."

The other man yawns and stretches, pushes himself into a sitting position. "I'm an actor," he reminds Dan. "We don't hate ourselves. Narcissism is what keeps us going."

"Hate me, then," Dan says softly, and catches the smile in the other man's eyes as he reaches up and pulls Dan's head down for a morning/goodbye kiss.

"No," he says, when they draw apart. "No, I don't. I can't. I wish … I'd like to see you again …" But Dan can tell that he knows as well as Dan himself does that that's a bad idea. Neither of them wants to end up a blind item in a celebrity gossip column; neither of their careers would survive a scandal.

"Me too," Dan says, and he drops one last, light kiss on the other man's cheek, and turns to go. "I'll see you on the big screen. Take care, man."

"Yeah," the actor says, and grins. "I'm going to have to avoid sports bars from now on in. If I see you on the TV, I may not be held responsible for my actions."

That makes Dan laugh, and he wishes again that he could stay, that they could have more time together. But that's impossible. Instead, he says, "Watch at home. We need the ratings." And then, more softly, he says, "Goodbye …" And, for the first time, he calls the other man by his name.

***


End file.
